


static lungs

by spacegirlkj



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Pre Wonderland, pov taako, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 11:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12725544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegirlkj/pseuds/spacegirlkj
Summary: He wants your soul. You aren't one for love at first sight.





	static lungs

**Author's Note:**

> had this sitting in my drafts for months, thought i might as well post it  
> unbeta'd

Death looks beautiful.

You've died before, apparently, in a far off memory you can't quite grasp. You don't recall it at all, actually, but you want to believe death because their voice is warm and their face is so human, dark hair twisted into locs pulled back to showcase high cheekbones and human ears.

And death- death has a _name_. It's Kravitz, and the syllables roll off your tongue too easy for your liking as you wrap tentacles around him.

He wants your soul. You aren't one for love at first sight.

-

But you don't stop thinking about him.

Not in the sense that it's the only thing on your mind, because that'd be absurd. Rather, in the sense that the lingering thought of dark eyes melting away to skull haunts you, terrifies you in more ways than one. You want to get to know him, you're _curious_. And when you're curious, it's hard not to stop thinking.

There's so much happening to take your mind off of him, though. You start teaching Angus magic because, despite everything, you've got a soft spot for the kid.

(Rewrite: you see yourself in him, but only the best parts.)

And you train harder and harder with Merle and Magnus, and your umbrella burns a name into the wall you don't understand, and you die another few times in a loop of trying to save a little town named Refuge with your friends. That's distraction if you've ever heard of one— trying to find a chalice that can fix the past. You're able to resist that, though. It shows you the day you kill forty people, the day you've been thinking about since it happened. Then it tells you it was never your fault.

You still feel guilty but _fuck_ , what reason do you have to take that deal now?

But back to death— to Kravitz. In the moments when you're not occupied, when your guard is down and you should be meditating or training or doing something else, you think about him, and wonder. Wonder what it'd be like to understand what got him where he is, why he dresses so well in that particular line of work— you know, death— and why he's so... so...

You've got a crush. It sucks because, gods, you don't have time to open yourself up and be vulnerable and have a crush. But you can't help but feel like Kravitz would be nice to hold when it's late at night even when you both don't need to sleep.  The idea sounds nicer than you think you deserve.

-

You come home and he's there, like the best kind of surprise after the most tiring day, cross legged and on your couch. He looks handsome in that three piece suit, and his locs frame his face now. He's smiling, slightly, and you smile back as you hang up your cloak.

And its business, of course, but you're excited. Excited because he has to see you again, talk to you again, even if it’s for work. It's been too long since you felt this certain kind of bubbliness in your chest, and if you catch yourself humming as you plan a date rather than a strategy to save an entire town.

Hey. He's let you off once before. You can play your cards right, you can do it again.

And the fact that he came in the first place, the fact that you get to see him again! It's great, so great. Your mind is that of a teenager, scrambled and ditzy and a mess of this secret little crush you've been nursing.

(Somewhere, cloaked in static, you turn, you reach to tell someone who isn't there.)

You open up, strangely enough. It feels natural, and wonderful despite admitting your worst fears and remembering posion on the lips of forty innocent strangers _not your fault not your fault_. Kravitz's hands are cold but you guide them in moulding the clay into a vase. It brings the pair of you too close for comfort, cool slick pottery coating your hands as your shoulders and chests press together.

And you drink and almost kiss and your umbrella tries to kill him but it's the most light you've felt in years and you want to see him smile like he did with your hands in his again, and again, and again.

-

So you meet again. And again, and again. Sometimes it's in Neverwinter, having dinner and walking through parks. Sometimes it's simply in your dorm room, listening to music and lying on top of each other in otherwise silence. Kravitz is cold, but sometimes you're so into whatever this is that you don't feel the ice of his hands as they trace down your back. He smiles so softly and it makes crows feet at the corners of his eyes, and your heart always betrays you in those moments, skips a beat and makes you stumble over whatever suave thing you were going to say.

On your third date he wears a red shirt, soft and worn, the closest thing to casual he probably knows. It smells like roses and pine, and it's what he wears the first time he kiss you by the hearth of your dorm room's fire.

You're terrified when it happens less because it's happening and more because of how bad you want it, how quickly you fall into the hand brushing the nape of your neck and blooming heat under your skin. Kravitz doesn't feel as cold now, you're used to it, but it's still forgien to kiss lips without the heat of breath or blood. Either way, he tastes like heaven and you taste like the weird wine you just sampled.

That red shirt becomes yours, and you wear it to bed and tuck it into your leather shorts and smell it so often because it smells like _him_. Kravitz leaves your sheets with his scent lingering on them and you have to stop yourself from being a fucking sap and sniffing them like they are a drug, you goddamn idiot. Shit, what if someone saw you?

But enough of that— it doesn't change how you feel, how spending time with Kravitz doing nothing but talking or nothing at all makes you open up like water lilies in the sunlight. You give him flowers that on Merle's recommendation—you never said anything but word spreads when you have the grim reaper on a moon base— and you don't quite mind. Kravitz loves the bouquets even if they wilt when he opens his portal back to the Astral Plane. He says he keeps them in a little vase, with raven's feathers and jewelry.

You think, absentmindedly, you'd like to see Kravitz's bedroom, to see what his home looks like. Does he even need a bed? Does death need to sleep? You ask, and he laughs. Kravitz's laughs sound like this: waves, hot cocoa, sore ribs. It reminds you of static. He says he likes sleeping even if he may not need it, says it's peaceful. You understand, because you sleep more than you meditate sheerly because meditation gets boring.

That night you and Kravitz sleep together, just that. Well, not just that, but that's what's important. Him, with his head on your chest, singing something old and forgotten under his breath. You, breathing enough warmth for the two of you, enough that you don't even notice how cold Kravitz's body can be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: lesbianoikawa
> 
> thank you for reading~


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